


days for fathers

by besidemethewholedamntime



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Softness, a father's day fic, it's more comfort than 'hurt/comfort', it's nice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 17:33:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14959019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besidemethewholedamntime/pseuds/besidemethewholedamntime
Summary: “Happy Fathers’ Day, mum,” he almost-whispers.“Aw, Leo. Thank you,” she says softly, too-softly, in that tone she always uses when she’s being gentle with him. “Though I really should be saying that to you.”Fitz phones his mum on Fathers' Day.





	days for fathers

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I managed to get a Fathers' Day fic in with literally 29 minutes to spare (it's 23:31)! I feel a little bit bad that i didn't write a Mothers' Day one, but this came into my head and I managed to write it in time!
> 
> I know that not everybody celebrates Fathers' Day, that not everybody had a reason to, and that's okay, and if you want to go ahead and skip this fic then that's totally cool!
> 
> I tried to make it to it celebrated great mums and dads but again, not everybody has reason to and the last thing I want to do is make anybody feel bad. So if you need to, miss this out, I don't mind <3
> 
> I wrote this in about an hour and a half so any mistakes are completely mine and my own fault for wanting to get it up in time!
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

He watches quietly out the window as the phone rings loudly in his ear. It’s only half past eight, but there are orange streaks in the sky signalling that the day is almost as its end.

“Hello?”

Fitz shakes his head at his mum’s over-polite tones. He really must teach her how to use the caller ID.

“Mum?”

“Leo,” she breathes, sounding giddy. “What can I do for you?”

He wonders, briefly, if she’s forgotten what today is. She sounds as though she wasn’t expecting to hear from him. Does she think he doesn’t know? Does she think he doesn’t care?

“Happy Fathers’ Day, mum,” he almost-whispers.

“Aw, Leo. Thank you,” she says softly, too-softly, in that tone she always uses when she’s being gentle with him. “Though I really should be saying that to you.”

Even though there’s nobody around to see it, he grins into the dying light. Thinks of Sarah upstairs being given a later bath. They’ve been out all day, the three of them. The park, the beach, then out for dinner. There will be sand in his hair for weeks.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. “I uh, I would have phoned earlier but-”

“Och, shush,” his mum says, no-nonsense. “This is your day, son. It’s no mine.”

He thinks of the day his dad left, how she had sat and let him cry for a man he had stopped trying to get to love him long ago. He thinks of the parents’ evenings, the university open days, the graduation ceremonies all attended. He always had someone there. He always had her.

“Maybe it’s for both of us, this time,” he says, quietly, hoping she’ll accept it.

He thinks of the first Fathers’ Day after his dad left, how he had lain in his bed under the covers, the card he had bought with his pocket money months ago (because if he found the best one then maybe his dad would smile at him, right?), written and left on his bedside table with some foolish childhood hope that his dad would come back and get it (to this day he wonders why he wanted him back so). His mum had come in, and told him in no uncertain terms to get up and get dressed; they were going out and he better be ready by the time she got out of the shower.

She did this every year until he left for America.

The second year Fitz bought another card, but instead addressed it to ‘mum’.

She doesn’t like it, never has. “Mothers’ Day is for me, Leo. I’m just doing what I would do anyway. I’m your mother.” But she kissed his forehead and smiled with tears in her eyes and he knows that she appreciates it. Because she’s done it all on her own and she’s never complained, not once.

“Aye,” she says quietly, softly, accepting. “This time it’s for both of us.”

“I did get you a card,” he says. “And Sarah made you one, too.”

“Did she now?” He can hear his mum’s raised eyebrow, the smile on her face. Anything from Sarah she loves with all of her heart, the Glasgow exterior not masking it at all. She takes it all, and what she doesn’t stick to the fridge, or frame in her living room, she puts in a special box marked with Sarah’s name, that sits next to a box marked ‘Leo’.

“Yeah, she did.” He smiles at the thought of the homemade card, adorned with two red footprints in the shape of a heart, a liberal amount of glitter sprinkled all over. “I think you’ll like it. It’s her best work yet.”

“Everything is her best work,” his mum says, haughtily. “The child is a genius.”

“Well, so was I, mum, and not one thing of mine was ever put on the fridge with such pride,” he jokes.

“Leopold Fitz, don’t you _dare_ ,” she warns, but he knows it’s only a mock-outrage. The joke has been overplayed all these years, yet it’s still theirs. “You wouldn’t let me put anything _on_ the fridge, because, and I quote, ‘schematics aren’t something to be proud of, only the finished product is.’”

He chuckles “I stand by it.” Then: “I promise we’ll come down and visit soon.”

“That’ll be good,” his mum affirms. “I’ve missed you all so much.” It might just be his imagination or does her voice get a little thick? He never gets a chance to think it through, because she coughs and says, “Right, I’ll be letting you get back to celebrating your day. Don’t want to keep you away.”

“Mum-”

“Get back to your baby girl, son. Let me know when you’re wanting to come down, alright?”

Fitz sighs, resignedly. “Alright, I will do.”

“Good.” But then he hears her sigh and soften. “It was nice to hear from you, Leo. Thank you for phoning.”

When did tears appear in his eyes? Has fatherhood made him so soft? He tries to blink them away. “Always, mum.”

She tells him she loves him, and he responds in kind before hanging up. There’s laughter from upstairs that signals bath time is over, and bed-time must be imminent. He needs a few moments, and so he stays sanding at the window. The orange streaks have almost faded. Night-time is here.

This morning he was woken up by kisses from his toddler, and a hand-drawn card thrown in his face, giving him the best paper-cut he’s ever received on his nose. Sarah managed to get him on the see-saw at the park, and he taught her how to skim stones at the beach. She made Jemma laugh so hard at dinner that her drink came out of her nose. He’s come a long way from those days hiding underneath the covers on this day, to enjoying it more and more each year.

He turns away from the window, and begins to ascend the stairs.

-x-

“She’s asleep already?”

Jemma looks up from where she’s rocking an asleep Sarah in the rocking chair.

“Yes,” she whispers, looking down briefly to their daughter. “It has been rather a long and busy day for her.”

Fitz smiles, runs a hand along his daughter’s forehead and moves to pick her up from Jemma to carry her to her own bed.

She almost awakens in his arms. “Daddy,” she mumbles, before promptly falling back to sleep, mouth hanging open.

Once she’s been tucked in to her own bed, Jemma and Fitz just stand there for a moment, watching this snoring little human who stole their hearts.

“Did you get your mum?” Jemma whispers, holding out a hand which he claps onto gratefully.

“Yeah,” he whispers back. “Said we’d go visit soon.”

“My parents said they’re coming to visit in a few weeks. Perhaps we could wait until then. You know how much they’d love to catch up.”

Fitz thinks of it, and how much he’d love it. “Perfect.”

In the quiet moment after, Fitz risks a glance at Jemma. She’s looking at their daughter, every emotion written clear on her face. He thinks of the girl he met at the Academy who, on every Fathers’ Day, would show up at his room with a movie and a board game, and an amount of sweets she would never usually condone. Not once did she ever say why she was doing it, but he knew. He always knew.

They begin to walk back to their own room, getting ready for bed. It’s not even that late, but they have a two year old and they’re tired and nine pm might as well be two am.

It’s when they’re getting underneath the duvet, and Jemma is resting her head on his chest the way she always has done, she leans up to kiss him and whispers, “Happy Fathers’ Day, Fitz.”

He blinks at her, willing the tears in his eyes and the back of his throat to disappear. It must be the sand. She continues.

“I know that this day isn’t easy for you. But you’re a wonderful father, and I never want you to be worried of ever being like _him,_ ” she spits the word venomously. “Sarah is lucky to have you.”

He’s the lucky one. He knows and is reminded every day, every time he looks at his family. He cocks an eyebrow and pulls Jemma closer. Thickly, he says self-deprecatingly, “You think?”

“Oh, Fitz,” Jemma says, with a look of disgust on her face as if he really should think better than to question her. “I _know._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to leave kudos/comment. Please feel free not to. Either way, I hope you have a lovely day!


End file.
